


Glory and Gore

by PunkHazard



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio), ダンジョン飯 | Dungeon Meshi | Delicious in Dungeon
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:47:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26021392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PunkHazard/pseuds/PunkHazard
Summary: Daniel turns his head to tell the newcomer not to sit so damn close when they slide onto the barstool next to him, and he nearly falls out of his seat when the stranger pulls down their hood to reveal the face of some kind of... some kind of large cat. The cat-- the hunter, Daniel realizes after a moment, eyeing the crossbow strapped to their back and the quiver of bolts at their waist-- points at Daniel's mug and asks, "What're you drinking, friend?"
Kudos: 6





	Glory and Gore

Daniel watches the last one of his coins roll across the countertop, to be swiped up by a greasy-looking bartender with a pitcher of lukewarm beer in his hand. The barkeep inspects the copper coin, hefting it in his hand and squinting at it, before pouring the dregs of the pitcher into the mug Daniel extends to him across the counter. 

"Sure you haven't had enough?" the barkeep asks, but he shrugs at the flash of Daniel's golden, pupil-less eyes, the slightest pull back of his lip to reveal his fangs, and retreats to the kitchen.

Cheap, watered-down alcohol isn't nearly enough to get Daniel drunk, but at the very least it clouds his senses, makes him less _aware_ of the dingy tavern he'd chosen, a far cry from his old haunts in the center of town. He's been scraping by for six months, relying on his savings and pawning off his equipment to keep himself plied with alcohol. He could theoretically venture deeper into the town's dungeon, Wolf 359, but the upper levels have already been stripped bare and going deeper without a party is just asking to be killed.

So... he doesn't. He just nurses this pint of beer, the last he'll have for a long time, at least until the next party in need of one more member comes along. Maybe they won't have heard about him yet, or they're desperate enough to overlook his reputation for one expedition. Daniel's not really in a position to be asking for much in way of a cut of the earnings, though. He can't contribute much without the necessary reagents, and without high-quality ingredients his formulas just aren't that effective. 

He'll blame the beer, and being a little tipsy, for missing the entrance of a stranger. It's like there's gauze wrapped over his usually-sharp eyes and ears when he's had enough to drink, which is sometimes pretty great and other times leaves him with his metaphorical pants around his ankles. 

Daniel turns his head to tell the newcomer not to sit so damn close when they slide onto the barstool next to him, and he nearly falls out of his seat when the stranger pulls down their hood to reveal the face of some kind of... some kind of large cat. The cat-- the hunter, Daniel realizes after a moment, eyeing the crossbow strapped to their back and the quiver of bolts at their waist-- points at Daniel's mug and asks, "What're you drinking, friend?"

Daniel was expecting-- well, he wasn't really sure what he was expecting. A 'meow' or a growl, maybe, but definitely not the smooth, warm pitch that he actually hears. Quickly glancing down at his mug to remind himself of his choice of drink, then grimacing when he remembers, he shakes his head. "Don't bother."

"No good?" New guy's ears turn down, flattening against his head in disappointment. They're small, rounded at the tips, covered inside and outside in a dense layer of grey-white fur. Dark spots pattern the rest of his head, and his forearm where he'd pulled it out from under his cloak.

"It's pretty much water," Daniel says, trying not to stare, and failing badly.

"Shame," the stranger says. He perks up a little, then, smiling not with his _mouth_ but with the set of his ears, his whiskers, the sudden dilation of those massive slitted pupils in silvery-grey eyes. "You know," he continues, "I once had this drink-- they call it whiskey-- made of barley wheat, and the area where they grew this barley is all swamp. Couple thousands of years ago, trees would fall and then get swallowed by this swamp and turned into peat, and they'd use this peat as fuel to dry the barley, and the whiskey they made from that grain? Well--"

There's something a little bit mesmerizing about watching this large cat talk about liquor, but Daniel shakes himself out of it and holds up a hand to make him stop. "Hold on," he interrupts, "wait. What the hell makes you think I want to hear this?"

The stranger pauses, blinks once. Unnervingly, his expression doesn't change, but his ears twitch, an agitated little flick before he reaches into his cloak and produces a flask. "I," he purrs, "just wanted you to fully appreciate the value of this drink I was about to pour you."

"Oh," says Daniel, watching him delicately uncork the flask, using the black, bean-shaped pads at the tips of his furry fingers. "Well. Carry on then."

"As I was saying," the leopard-man continues, "they take this whiskey, and they put 'em in oak barrels for years, and it takes on the flavor of the wood. And they reuse these barrels over and over again, so your liquor doesn't just taste like the wood, but has the characteristics of all the whiskeys they put in it before. Here."

Daniel sniffs the mouth of the flask, and he's nearly bowled over by the smoky, wood-y scent of it-- comforting to his tiefling nose. There's a fruity undercurrent to it, completely unlike the wine or beer that's usually available in these parts, and he takes a cautious sip.

"What do you think?" 

Daniel takes a bolder sip, then tips the entire flask end-up to catch the last of it. The stranger's mouth drops open in dismay, ears pinned against his head, but at the sight of Daniel licking his lips, seems to resign himself. There had only been a mouthful left, anyway.

"What's this called again?" Daniel asks, audibly smacking his lips a little just to show this stranger that it hadn't gone to waste on a plebeian. "Where'd you get it?"

"It's whiskey, like I _said_ \--"

"And," says Daniel, tossing his flask back to him, "why are you here?"

"I was passing by," he answers blithely, "and saw you hunched at this counter. Thought you could use a pick-me-up."

"Well," says Daniel, "thanks for introducing me to whiskey, I guess. Sorry I wasted your time."

"Not at all." The stranger shrugs out of his cloak and slings it across his lap. The move reveals powerful arms, muscle rippling under patterned fur. He's wearing a simple leather chest plate and light pauldrons, bracers strapped to his forearms. "You mind if I ask what brought you to this fine establishment? Mister..."

"Jacobi. Daniel Jacobi."

"Warren Kepler. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Uh, yeah, likewise."

"I was also wondering what an alchemist of _your_ caliber was doing in a place like this."

"Wh-- how'd you know I was--"

Kepler pulls back the edge of Daniel's jacket with a delicate hand, fingers brushing the last of his higher-quality gear, the belt of reagents he'd had custom-crafted when he finally graduated from the Alchemists' Guild and couldn't bear to part with. It'd been enchanted to store far more than it appeared to, and to preserve reagents far better than a regular pack. "I'm not sure what you've got in there now," Kepler murmurs, "but a common alchemist doesn't use bicorn blood. I could smell it from the street."

"Well," Daniel scoffs, "neither does this one, anymore."

"No?"

"See, an alchemist needs ingredients to make potions, and those ingredients cost money. Alchemist can't make money, can't use formulas, can't. Do. Jack."

"Can't...?"

"A year ago," Daniel says, quieter now, and bitter, "I led a group into the dungeon. We got pretty deep-- deeper than anyone but the orcs. Got ambushed by a dragon in this... old settlement. It was uh, pretty much a full-party wipe. Usually it's not so bad if your scout or your rogue gets got first, but it took out our healer. Everyone died but me. I went back up to get help, but since the walls and buildings kept moving, I couldn't find my way out for a couple weeks, and it took a couple more to get back down with another group. By then, it was too late. They couldn't be revived."

"That must've been difficult for you."

"Word got around so I couldn't get hired as a contractor, and folks in these parts..." Daniel reaches up to touch his horns, one broken halfway up and the other long and pointed. "Well," he says, "they don't really trust my kind, so I'm not getting offers from newcomers, either. Can't even make enough to get off this stupid island."

"Well," says Kepler, "I'm not from around these parts."

Daniel looks at him again, no longer so blindsided by Warren's big, round face and the fluffy ears that he misses the long, sharp canines that are visible in his mouth. "Yeah, that's pretty obvious." A grin. "Long way from home?"

"You could say that. How'd you know?"

"I mean you're-- a beastkin, right? That's what they call it?" He's probably drunker than he thought, because under other circumstances, Daniel would never consider touching a stranger. But he reaches out, burying his fingers in the thick undercoat of Kepler's arm. "Your fur's pretty thick, and its base is white... so I assume you're crossed with some kind of snow monster."

"You ever been up there?" 

"Once." Daniel pulls his hand away, internally reminding himself that Warren didn't bite his hand off for touching him without permission, but he probably wouldn't put up with being scritched by a complete stranger. Or maybe he would. It's been a really weird day already. "Couple years ago. Didn't stay long, though. Too damn cold."

"I hear that."

Daniel peers at him. "You're not getting heatstroke this far south or anything?"

"Naw. Cloak's enchanted."

"That's high-level stuff."

Warren pushes his stool back and drops to the floor, landing silently except for the swish of his clothing. It's then that Daniel notices he's barefoot. "Well," he says, clapping Daniel briefly on the shoulder before he shrugs his cloak back on and pulls up the hood, "listen, if you're ever looking for a party... come find me. I've got an employer who's always looking for fresh talent, and he's not too fussed about bringing on misfits like us."

"An employer? Hey, wait--" Daniel glances over his shoulder to make sure he hasn't left anything on the bar, and when he looks back Kepler's already slipping out the door. He sprints to catch up, falling into step beside Kepler as the hunter heads toward the edge of town. "Where're you going?"

"I said I'd make the introduction, didn't I?"

**Author's Note:**

> i know there aren't tieflings in dungeon meshi, but i like them so there are now! kepler's a snow leopard beastkin. planning to continue this, not sure if i'll actually get around to it though (':


End file.
